Green Monster (27 page)

Miranda glanced back at Heather, who had his mother's head cradled in her lap. If he was looking for a sign from her suggesting what he should do, he didn't receive it. Heather simply held his gaze, then looked back into the eyes of his mother. She stroked Elena's hair and said, “You're going to be all right. Alberto's here now.”

Miranda looked back at Jefe, whose wild, desperate eyes pleaded for mercy. Then he held his empty hand out to Pedro, who gave him the bloody machete. With the power that allowed him to hit a baseball 500 feet and throw it 97 miles per hour, Alberto Miranda swung the machete down into Jefe's skull, slicing his face open. The machete was embedded so deep into Jefe's brain that it did not easily come out, so Miranda left it there.

He turned again to look at Heather, who gave him a reassuring nod.

Chapter Thirty-one

The American Airlines flight from Caracas to Boston made a stop in Miami, and was scheduled to land at Logan at 10:40 Sunday morning. The Sox—who had won again on Friday night and Saturday afternoon, and now were just a game out of first place—were scheduled to play the Yankees at seven p.m. on ESPN's “Sunday Night Baseball.” That would give Sam the afternoon to meet with Lou Kenwood and fill him in on what had happened.

Most of it was good news. Best of all, Elena Miranda was alive, her kidnappers were dead, and Lou would not have to pay the extortion demand because Alberto Miranda had no intention of claiming he'd thrown the Series. Miranda had stayed behind in Caracas to support his friend Pedro, who'd been arrested for murder, but the local attorney who represented Miranda was certain the case would be quickly dismissed, thanks partly to Alberto's influence, but primarily because of the gun that was found in Jefe's ungloved right hand—the same gun that had fired the bullet that killed Hector—when the police and firefighters eventually arrived at the scene.

With a little bit of luck, they could keep the story out of the news. If it looked like someone in the media was getting wind of part of the story, Sam could call on Russ Daly of the L.A. Times, who would verify the crucial details and make sure what did become public was accurate.

There was bad news, too. Sam didn't know where Bruce Kenwood was, or what had happened to Frankie Navarro. Maybe they'd been killed by Mink's gang. More likely, the cops had arrived in time to interrupt the gunfight. Perhaps they were all in jail, including Mink; or maybe they were all on the loose, still gunning for each other. During the stopover in Miami, Sam hadn't been able to reach anyone in L.A. who knew what had happened in Palos Verdes on Friday night. He'd try again when they got to Boston.

But there was more bad news for Lou.

Shortly after their flight lifted off from Maiquetia Airport in Caracas, Sam had turned to Heather and said, “Alberto is in love with you.”

“I know,” Heather replied quietly.

“And I think you're in love with him, too.”

“I am.”

“What are you going to do?”

Heather didn't immediately reply. Sam knew she'd had her life planned out for years. No doubt she'd realized Lou Kenwood's interest in her from the first week she'd worked for him. It was not hard to believe that she had come to love the man as they worked closely together in one of the most exciting businesses in America. Why wouldn't she marry him? He was rich, still attractive, a hero to Red Sox Nation, and a guaranteed ticket to a lifetime of fame and glamour after she inherited his empire. What 28-year-old business whiz wouldn't take that deal?

If she wasn't conscience-stricken about stealing another woman's husband, it was understandable. Katherine would be dead soon, so there was no need for Lou to walk out on her. Besides, she'd had her own turn living the glamour life as Mrs. Lou Kenwood—and she had fallen into it the same way Heather had. When Lou Kenwood decided he wanted someone younger and prettier, he acquired her—just as he'd go out and get a right-fielder or a pitcher.

“I'm not going to tell you what to do, but I will mention a couple of facts,” Sam said.

“Go ahead.”

She was looking at a magazine on her tray table and didn't glance at Sam, but he knew she wasn't paying any attention to the article.

“Alberto is a good man. He made a mistake getting mixed up with HGH, but it says something about his character that he wasn't willing to throw the Series to keep it quiet.”

“I know,” Heather said. She still didn't look at him.

“He is also a hell of a player, and he hasn't been caught doing anything illegal—yet. You could help get him off that stuff, and he could play another ten years. He ought to be more, uh, capable, too.”

Heather smiled, but said nothing.

“Players are going to be caught, suspended, and maybe even banned from baseball, but Alberto doesn't have to be one of them,” Sam said. “And when it comes to money, he may not be Lou Kenwood, but he's already got more than the two of you will ever need. If he plays another ten years, you can live any way you want, for the rest of your lives.”

“I thought I loved Lou,” Heather said after a while. “I really did. But now…Now all I can think about is Alberto.”

“I'll point out one other fact, and then leave you alone,” Sam said. “Alberto is going to outlive Lou by fifty years. After Lou's dead, Alberto is the kind of man you're going to be looking for anyway. I don't know if you think he's worth more than owning a major league baseball team, but I do know this: The Red Sox are going to give you way more heartaches than Alberto would.”

Heather smiled, and finally looked at Sam.

“You're right. I can't marry Lou. I've known that almost from the moment I laid eyes on Alberto. I'll have to tell Lou as soon as we get back to Boston.”

Heather was one of the most gorgeous women he'd ever met, but at that moment—despite the wearying travel, the lack of sleep, the lack of attention to grooming and attire, the poor lighting in the plane—Sam was sure he saw something blossom within her that heightened all of her exquisite features. For the first time, he saw real beauty in her, rather than just good looks. He was now more than attracted to her or entertained by her; he liked her. And in that moment, he felt sorry for Lou Kenwood.

“He'll be devastated.”

“I know,” Heather said. “And I'm sorry. But maybe it's for the best. At least he's still got Katherine.”

Sam did not reply.

***

Despite the gloom of another rainy day, Boston was in the familiar throes of pennant race frenzy when they got off the plane at Logan. The Sox had been given up for dead just ten days ago, but as Sam and Heather were walking through the terminal to the baggage level, signs of the team's resurrection were everywhere. The local papers had given their front pages over to previews of that night's battle for first place in the A.L. East: “Sox can catch Yanks tonight,” screamed the banner headline in the Globe; “Babe to Yanks: ‘Curse this'” said the Herald. Sox hats, sweatshirts and pennants were being sold at the bookstores, gift shops, newsstands, and from impromptu novelty stands and carts. The TV monitors in the terminal were all tuned to NESN, which was showing highlights of the team's improbable comeback from near-elimination to the brink of the playoffs.

The cab that Sam and Heather got into had a soggy Sox pennant hanging from a plastic holder attached to the left rear window. As the cab splashed out of the airport parking lot, Heather called Kenwood's office, but he wasn't there. When she told Sam she'd try him at Fenway, their turbaned driver, whose license identified him as Abrar Sohrab, turned his head to look at them.

“You know Red Sox people?” the driver said. “Can get tickets tonight? Abrar pay very high dollar.”

“Sorry,” Sam said. “We can't help you.”

“Aghhh,” the driver said. “Never tickets for Abrar.”

Heather dialed Fenway, and Lou answered the phone in his suite.

“Hi, Lou, we're back,” she said. “We've got a lot to talk about.”

Sam watched Heather's face turn from almost apologetically happy to concerned as she listened to the owner's voice. She said, “Just a minute—talk to Sam,” and held out her phone.

“What is it?” Sam asked.

“I got a call from Bruce this morning,” Kenwood said. “He's in Boston. He wants me to meet him at noon in the Monster Seats. He says he's going to kill Katherine.”

“Did you call her?”

“She's not home.”

Sam went over the jumble of events from the past few days. They'd gone to Bruce's house on Thursday night; that would have left Bruce the rest of that night, and maybe Friday, to explain his way out of the shootout, and, possibly, to make bail. He could have caught a plane to Boston on Saturday, while Sam and Heather were in Venezuela. He should have realized that Bruce wasn't going to let this go. All he had ever really wanted was to hurt his father in a deep and lasting way. If he couldn't disgrace the Red Sox and besmirch their first World Series victory in 86 years, he could still inflict a mortal wound on his father.

“Don't meet him,” Sam said.

“I have to.”

“Call the cops, and stay put till we get there. We're just leaving Logan in a cab.”

“I'm not afraid of that sniveling little punk. I'll meet him anytime, anyplace. And I don't want the police involved in this. I told you that.”

“Don't be stupid, Lou.” Sam raised his voice. “Your kid was willing to fake his own death and hire mobsters to hurt you. I think he's dangerous—and I know he's nuts.”

“He's a sissy. I've known that since he was kicked out of college for…molesting his roommate.”

So that was why Kenwood had disowned his son.

“Okay, Lou, don't call the cops, but stay in your suite and lock it till we get there. If Bruce does show up, let me handle it. You're paying me for that, remember?”

“This is family stuff now, Skarda. It's personal. I can handle it.”

He hung up. Sam gave the phone back to Heather and said, “Driver, get to Fenway Park as fast as you can.”

“Now maybe tickets for Abrar?” the driver said.

“Yes, tickets for Abrar. Now, move it.”

They reached Yawkey Way a little past noon. The first pitch was not due for almost seven hours, yet Kenmore Square had already begun the game-day conversion from busy metropolitan crossroads to baseball-themed street carnival, with food and merchandise vendors setting up shop under dripping umbrellas, while ticket scalpers and buyers huddled in groups under eaves and in shop doorways. Every few feet, someone had a radio tuned in to WEEI, where Sox talk had passed irrational and was now tending to the surreal. It created a stereo effect with the radio in Abrar's cab.

“Ben from Framingham, think we're gonna get tonight's game in?”

“We have to. We can't lose our momentum now. We're gonna run the table. The Yankees SUCK!”

“Okay, I think we all agree that the Yankees suck. But gimme your best shot on Hurtado. Do we sign him after the week he's had?”

“Oh, geez, yeah. He's homered in, what, six of the last seven games? It's like Yaz in '67. I always said Hurtado was a gamer. I love the guy.”

“So sign him to a four-year deal?”

“Whatever he wants. Whatever it takes.”

Abrar pulled the cab up to the corner of Yawkey and Brookline, got out of the car and opened the trunk, holding an umbrella over Sam and Heather as they removed their luggage. Heather paid him and gave him her card.

“Call my office later today, and I'll see that you get tickets for tonight,” she said.

“Oh, bless you,” Abrar said. “Four, please.”

They hurried down Yawkey Way to the entrance to the Red Sox offices. A security guard opened the door for them.

“Morning, Ms. Canby,” the guard said. “Nasty day.”

“Who's come in today, Fred?” Heather asked.

“Mr. Kenwood's here. And Mrs. Kenwood came in about a half hour ago with someone I didn't recognize.”

“Man or a woman?” Sam asked.

“Woman, I think. She was using an umbrella, and I didn't get a good look at her.”

Sam glanced at Heather, then looked quickly at Fred's belt. He was not wearing a firearm, but he did have a radio clipped to his belt.

“Do we call the police?” Sam asked Heather.

“Why would you want the police?” the guard said, suddenly looking worried.

Heather pulled Sam into a secretary's cubicle off the main lobby, put her bags down and pulled him close to her.

“Lou said no police,” she said, quiet enough that Fred would not hear her. “No reporters. The other employees can't know about this. We've got to do this his way.”

“I don't agree,” Sam said. “This is getting out of hand. That was Bruce who came in with Katherine.”

“You don't know that.”

“One way to find out. Let's go up.”

They took the elevator up to the top level, and walked down the concourse to the entrance to the Kenwoods' suite. The door was open, but no one was inside. Sam walked into the suite and picked up a pair of binoculars from an end table. He fixed them on the Monster Seats atop the left-field wall, and spotted two figures, one slowly lowering the other's wheelchair, one step at a time, down to the first row of Monster Seats. When they reached the bottom row, next to the light standard that held up the giant Coke bottles, the one walking held an umbrella over the head of the woman in the wheelchair, who was wearing a Nor'easter rain hat and was covered in a brightly colored blanket. They both appeared to be gazing out over the sodden, empty ballpark and the tarp-covered field as though waiting for the game to begin.

Sam turned the binoculars to the left, and saw Lou Kenwood walking toward them from the left-field foul pole. He was bareheaded with no umbrella or topcoat.

“Lou's out there,” Sam said.

“Who's that sitting right above the wall?” Heather asked.

“Bruce and Katherine.” Sam put the glasses down. “We've got to get out there.”

“It doesn't make any sense. Bruce loathes Katherine. She hated him.”

“Doesn't matter now. Come on.”

Sam took Heather by the elbow and pulled her out into the concourse. They ran as fast as they could to the Green Monster.